


You know what they do to guys like us in prison

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Prison AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy doesn't want to give a fuck about anybody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You know what they do to guys like us in prison

When the catcalls start up, Tommy ignores them. The sun beats down on the yard, stinging his eyes, sweat plastering his shirt to his back where it's pressed against the hard bench. It's the third Tuesday of the month. Same shit happens every time. Tommy's been in here three years out of his five, and he doesn't give a flying fuck about the pecking order except keeping his ass out of it. So he shuts up, takes a drag off his smoke, and watches.

Some faces aren't new. Out of the ones that are, the fresh meat, the bitches, whatever filthy shit the yard boys are calling them this week, there's a guy half a head taller than Monroe. From the sound of it, Monroe doesn't like that so much. New guy's got this look on his face like he can't figure out what the hell's going on, how he ended up in stuck smack in the middle of County. His hair's pitch fucking black in the sunlight, gleaming, two razor-sharp lines shaved through it over his left temple. Doesn't hold himself like street, or somebody used to doing bad things to good people, or even somebody who's done a bad thing just this once.

Idly, Tommy wonders if the carpet matches the curtains. His money's on no. Even with a quarter of the yard between them, he'd have to be blind to miss the freckles all fucking over the guy.

Monroe gets up in the guy's face. Good little dogs Fisk and Caras flank him. Everybody else shouting and screaming like a bunch of fucking morons drowns out Monroe's voice, but Tommy doesn't have to hear to know what he's saying. _Cocksucker. Pretty boy. Gonna fuck you up, fuck you, fag, gonna fuck you 'til you squeal._

The new guy doesn't budge. Doesn't say a word. Just takes it, face like flint, and then he does the stupidest fucking thing Tommy's seen since last March when some kid spit right in Monroe's face and ended up sucking his meals through a straw for the next three months.

New guy turns his back, and walks away.

*

Outside the fence, there's everywhere else to be if you don't like where you are. Inside, there's jack shit. Only so far to walk. Especially if you want to get fed.

New guy doesn't know the system. He doesn't hang back waiting for the coast to clear alongside the rest of the punks he transferred in with. He doesn't check out to see who's watching him grab a tray, move down the line. He doesn't look twice before taking a seat at the table with Frankie H, grey-haired and toothless and old as fucking dirt, and the deaf guy nobody gives a shit about. Tommy's not even sure anybody knows his name. Billy, maybe, or Willy. Something.

Tommy's not the only one watching. Monroe and Caras exchange glances, and Fisk gets up, bringing Caras and Hogarth along for the ride as he saunters on over to drop his ugly shadow over the new guy's lunch.

Fisk rattles off the same tired old spiel, shit-sucking fag this, pasty white ass that. New guy acts like he's as deaf as Willy right up until Fisk smacks his dinner tray ass-up into his lap. He stares down at it, still lost, confused. Like he just doesn't get it.

"You listen when I'm talkin' to you, cocksucker," Fisk snarls.

"I bet you'd like that," new guy says, the first words Tommy's heard him utter. "Me sucking your dick."

Tommy hides a wince. First thing he's heard the guy say, and probably the last. Fisk draws off. The new guy's got time to move. He doesn't. Fisk's scarred fist crashes into his face and he goes skidding off the bench, hitting tile hard on his side, down and out and he's fucking done for now. Once you're on the ground, that's it. Only thing left to do then is curl up and hope you can live without whatever breaks.

Which doesn't do much to explain why the hell Tommy's up and walking towards them. The guards watch like it's fucking television. They don't do shit unless somebody gets cut, and even then, they're not worth much. Nobody wants to lose an eye over a con.

"Hey," Tommy says. "Fisk."

"Stay the fuck out of it, Ratliff," Caras growls.

Tommy ignores him. Caras has never had the balls to go face to face with him again, not after that first time. One of these days, Caras will get the guts to try jumping him in the basement, and Tommy'll deal with him then. "Leave his fucking teeth in his head, Fisk," Tommy says.

Fisk throws back his head and laughs. His knuckles are streaked red. Beneath the blood, one of the new guy's eyes is blue-black and swollen. "You finally want a bitch? That it? Three years and this is the shit you want on your dick."

A sharp whistle pierces the noisy rumble surrounding them. Now that the fists aren't flying and nobody's guts are on the floor, the guards move in. "Break it up, fellas," says Page, always the first to wade in, the last to wade out. "C'mon, break it up. Got some frustrations, take it out on the meatloaf."

Fisk spits on the new guy and says to Tommy, "Hope your bitch's ass is tighter than his mouth."

The new guy makes a face at the spit on his chest, scrubbing it off onto the floor with his sleeve. He gets up slowly at Page's urging, hurt in more than a few places. Tommy hangs around until he's steady, then walks back to his table and sits down to finish his cold dinner, watching as new guy limps out to the infirmary.

New guy watches right back.

*

Two days later, Tommy leans a shoulder against the open door of new guy's cell and says, "Hey."

New guy glances up from his book, dropping it as Tommy pitches a tiny plastic baggie at his head. He catches it, brow crinkled. His face looks better. Not good, but better. Lucky he didn't come out of it with a broken nose, or worse.

"Aspirin," Tommy says. "Promise."

Warily, new guy curls his hand into a fist around the two tiny pills. "Thanks."

"Those don't come cheap in here, babyboy."

New guy's on his feet in an instant. "Then I don't want them."

Tommy can't help it. He grins. "You didn't even ask how much."

"I appreciate it," new guy says, and fuck, he's trying so damn hard. It's kind of cute, and really fucking sad. "But no thanks."

"Maybe all I want is your name."

New guy's not so quick this time. He's got to be hurting still, and out of all the shit to get used to on the inside, having to deal with pain might be one of the worst. Little pains, big ones, inside and out, they're always there. Three walls and metal bars don't come with much in the way of comfort.

He takes his time sizing Tommy up this go around. His gaze slides over the sleeves inked into Tommy's skin, following the parade of big-name horrors--Jason and Dracula, Kruger, all of Tommy's classic favourites--up to Tommy's face. He lingers for a long time on the silver rings tracking up the shell of his ear and the dark brown roots showing on the shaved side of Tommy's head, the dishwater-blond hair flopped haphazardly down the other. He's total shit at hiding what he's thinking. Wouldn't be the first time somebody pegged Tommy as a punk kid, a victim, but that's not what Tommy's seeing on this guy's face.

Slowly, new guy asks, "Is that all you want?"

"Yeah." It isn't.

"Adam."

He gave that up too easy. And just like that, Tommy knows Adam's future. He's going to be one of the lonely ones. He's got friends, real ones, out there somewhere, and he's missing them already. Tommy hopes he makes it out before pieces of him start dying. Fuck, that's some depressing shit.

"Hi, Adam," Tommy says, and pushes off the bars, leaving Adam with his pills and his pain.

*

Over the next few days, Adam avoids the yard. He pretty much avoids everywhere except his job--laundry room, not good for him--and the cafeteria. Meal times are almost over by the time Adam wanders in to pick up cold scraps. Through the healing bruises on his face, it's easy to tell how much the isolation is getting to him. Guy wears his heart on his sleeve.

When visiting hours roll around on Sunday, Tommy expects Adam to be in the reception room the whole time. He's not. He's hiding out in his cell, perched on the top bunk close to the window, nose in a book. It's a different one this time. Tommy doesn't recognise the dog-eared cover.

"So much for those friends," Tommy says as he walks by.

There's a sort of vicious satisfaction in the hurt look Adam throws him. Beneath it, though, Tommy feels like a total dick. Prison hasn't exactly been good for him, either.

*

The next time Tommy sees Adam, it's Wednesday. Adam shows up at Tommy's cell with an armload of clean sheets and a roll of toilet paper. Tommy hikes up an eyebrow but stays where he is on the lower bunk, legs a careless sprawl and arms tucked under his head. This is new. And weird. He's picked up his own damn laundry every day he's been in here.

"Drugs," Adam says.

"Aw, baby, you shouldn't have."

Frowning, Adam takes a hesitant step into the cell. He dumps the sheets onto the bed at Tommy's feet. "It's why I'm in here. I heard you were asking."

Tommy shrugs. Maybe he asked a question or two. He's not surprised it's news. The last time he asked questions, somebody lost an eye.

"Possession, intent to sell," Adam says. "They weren't mine."

Laughing, Tommy says, "If you say so."

"I don't care if you believe me or not. You asked, so I'm telling you." He skims a hand through his hair, nervous. Today, his face looks almost okay. "And you were right, the other day."

Sitting up, hands dangling between spread knees, Tommy asks, "About?"

"My friends," Adam says. It looks like it hurts. "They're not."

Long after Adam's gone, what he said is still turning slowly over in Tommy's head. Tommy doesn't want to give a fuck about anybody. Caring's just a way to get hurt. Bad enough dealing with that bullshit out in the real world. There's enough in here to worry about without it.

That doesn't mean he misses the hairy eyeball guard Page aims Adam's way.

*

It takes another week for Monroe to pull his usual stunt with the new boys that piss him off. Adam's already down in the basement six days out of seven, and Tommy doesn't doubt for a second he had something to do with Adam being assigned to laundry. But keeping secrets in prison is about as hard as keeping your junk to yourself in the showers, and Friday afternoon, when the guards are preoccupied with the new shift coming in, Tommy's down there too.

Monroe honestly looks surprised to see him. Truth be told, Tommy's surprised himself.

"Should've brought Caras with you," Tommy says from where he's standing between Monroe's shiv and Adam's tender belly.

"I don't need anybody to help me with this one," Monroe says, glinting metal dancing between his fingers. "All I'm gonna do is scare the cocksucker a little. Even put him on his knees for you."

Adam's fear is a heavy weight against Tommy's back, hot and prickling. For the first time in a long time, Tommy is something other than bored. "He's plenty scared already."

Monroe's smile turns ugly. "You gotta learn how to keep a bitch, Ratliff. Heard you're the one who shelled out to get Fisk thrown in the hole. He even suck you yet?"

Air hisses between Adam's teeth. "What?"

"Shut up," Tommy bites out.

Laughter echoes off the walls, grating Tommy's nerves. He grinds his teeth. If he gets a fucking rusty knife in the guts over a guy too stupid to keep his head down and mouth shut, he's gonna be so pissed.

"Wait!" Adam calls, too late to stop the fist Tommy slams into Monroe's throat. Monroe goes back but not down, shiv glancing off Tommy's forearm, skidding through his ink and opening a thin deep slice that stings like a motherfucker. Back when Tommy started this shit in here, he wasn't too sure about his chances, but like a lot of guys, Monroe's used to the advantage of size, reach. He lost that the second he let Tommy close. Tommy takes a few hits to his side, another glancing shot to his jaw. The shiv goes skidding away and Tommy gets lucky, two quick jabs, one to the ribs and the other to the jugular, sending Monroe crashing down hard.

"Fucker," Monroe wheezes, clutching his side. He spits red.

Shaking out his hand, Tommy jerks a nod at the shiv. "Pocket that shit. Get the fuck outta here."

Adam does as he's told, eyes shock-wide and face gone pale. He stares down at Tommy's arm. "What about-"

"Just move, _fuck_." Grabbing Adam's wrist, knuckles screaming, Tommy drags Adam to the stairwell. Adam fights the whole way, jerking his arm free, planting his feet before Tommy can shove him up the stairs. "What the fuck's the matter with you!"

"I'm not," Adam starts, stops. He's got the shiv in his hand, this look on his face like he thinks he needs to use it. "I didn't ask for this. I don't owe you anything."

"You stupid fuck," Tommy spits. "If I wanted your fucking ass, I'd already have it. You think you got to _owe_ it in here to end up on somebody's dick?"

Beneath the freckles, Adam goes grey. "I don't, they're just _people_ , for fuck's sake!"

"Yeah," Tommy snorts. "People. And there's nothing to be afraid of there."

Adam backs up a step, then another, gaze on the hallway where they left Monroe. When his heel hits the bottom stair, he turns and bolts. This time, he doesn't look back. Doesn't even think that the one he's got to be afraid of is the one who just hauled his ass out of the fire.

But he didn't give up the shiv, so maybe he's not a total waste.

*

The next afternoon, Tommy gets another surprise. He's out in the yard, back to the bleachers in the lone scraggly patch of grass, cigarette pinched between his lips, when Adam's shadow falls over his face. He blows out a long string of smoke. "Gonna sit down?"

Adam's mouth is paper-thin, tight. "I'm not sucking your dick."

"Good to know." Tommy takes another long drag, holds it in his lungs. It tastes like shit. He exhales fast and stubs his smoke out in the dirt. He's never liked this crap. He's just so fucking bored all the goddamn time.

Warily, Adam settles down. He draws his legs up, throws his arms over his knees casually. Tension sings in every line of his body, thrumming like a naked power line at Tommy's side. His gaze slides down to the thin healing gash struck through Freddy's face. "I wanted to say thanks."

Tommy tips his head back, eyes closed. The sun is warm on his skin. Adam's warmer. "Thought you said you weren't gonna blow me."

"I'm not," Adam says, too quick. "But I don't care about what other people think."

"Okay," Tommy says. Fair enough. "Make sure I'm still awake when you get to the point."

"I wouldn't do it if I thought I owed you," Adam says, picking his way carefully through minefield words. "I'd do it because I wanted to."

Tommy lets Adam's voice swirl around him like smoke. It's sweet, earnest. Naïve. In prison, you don't go around admitting you're the fag everybody says you are. Not to anybody. They're just words in here. Ways to beat people down. Making them true makes them dangerous. Keeping his eyes shut, Tommy says, "This is where I say you're gonna end up with a dick shoved in you whether you want it or not."

"Lemme guess, it's gonna be yours."

Tommy opens his eyes. He stares up at the sky, the scuttling clouds. Three years is a long time. Two more seems like longer still. "That's the only choice you've got left in here."

When Adam doesn't say anything else, Tommy gets up. "You want some honesty, babyboy? You're the last fucking thing I wanted. Stick whatever label on it you want, doesn't change the fact that you're the bitch now. Figure out what the hell you wanna do with that, or somebody else'll figure it out for you."

Leaving Adam there, lost and alone in the sunlight, is harder than it should be. Adam doesn't belong on the inside. He reminds Tommy too much of what it's like to be somewhere else, to be someone else. Someone he's not.

*

On Thursdays, Tommy works kitchen cleanup, and like always, Adam comes in late. There's not much left worth eating. There never is, and it's showing on Adam's face more and more. He picks up a small container of milk, and sighs, waiting for somebody behind the counter to give a shit about feeding him. Over in the corner, Frankie H starts laughing.

Sticking the ratty mop back into the bucket, Tommy heads over to fold his arms on the plexiglass hood in front of Adam. "Hungry?"

"Starving," Adam admits, a sliver of a smile flittering across his face, there and gone again as quickly as he remembers where he is, who he's talking to.

"You want this shit," Tommy asks, flicking a glance down at what's supposed to be scalloped potatoes, "or something worth the effort?"

"Please don't say you'll feed me your dick," Adam says, shoulders slumping tiredly. "I've heard that one three times already this week."

"Heh, no." Tommy rubs away an itch on the side of his nose. "Could be I saved you some real food, if you want it."

Adam hesitates. He knows what it means to take favours now. Watching the light in his eyes dim, Tommy thinks about telling him it's no strings. Tommy _wants_ to say no strings, just take it, but the guys at his back are watching. He's fought too hard for too long to slip up just for the chance to put that ghost of a smile back on Adam's face.

"Yeah," Adam finally says, the whole weight of the world in his voice. "Yeah, okay."

Somebody in the back applauds. Tommy shakes his head, digging out the covered tray he stuck inside one of the empty warmers. He wishes he'd said something before Adam gave in. Then he wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

*

It's bound to happen sooner or later. That it happens in the showers just fucking figures. Fisk's been out of solitary for days by then, and maybe Tommy should count it lucky Adam had what little extra time he did.

"I hear TJ's been slippin'," Fisk bellows, face stuck in the spray like he doesn't give a fuck, like he's talking shit just for the sake of it.

Adam flinches. He keeps his head down, keeps soaping his arms. Like vultures, everybody's watching, waiting for him to figure out he's done.

Tommy hates this shit. He sighs, skimming wet hair out of his face. "Babyboy's not listening to you, Fisk."

A chorus of laughter goes up through the steam. "Babyboy," somebody singsongs, and Hogarth coos, wordless and mocking.

"That so," Fisk says. "Word is, he's not listening to you, either."

Tommy's been on the outside looking in on this scene too many times to count. He opens his mouth to the spray, lukewarm water pooling on his tongue. It's not that he objects to being the one getting head for once. What he doesn't like is he's not the one asking for it.

Adam says, "Tommy," the first time Tommy's ever heard Adam say his name--Adam's known it for weeks, but never used it, never had a reason to, and he doesn't really have a good reason to now. He moves around to block the falling water, his back to glossy tile. His voice is pitched low, resigned. "Mouth or ass?"

Lust uncoils slithering-snake slow in Tommy's belly. He'd be a fucking liar if he said he didn't want a piece of what Adam's got. Blood goes south, thickening his dick, reminding him how good it'll feel to have somebody else on it, something other than his own hand and tired fantasies. His knees threaten to buckle and put him flat on his ass when Adam's hand closes around his cock, big and warm, soap-slippery wet.

"Told ya," somebody calls. "Fucker's got a craving for a thick one shoved in his face!"

"Down," Tommy says, fighting to keep his tone even, keep what's curling up inside him out of it. This isn't anything more than what everybody else is seeing--fair trade, sex for protection. He doesn't fucking _want_ it to be anything more, the same as he doesn't want it to be exactly what it is. "On your knees for me."

Adam sinks down slow and easy, eyes on Tommy's face. He waits, hands on Tommy's thighs, so close Tommy can feel his breath on wet skin. Shivers chase one after the other up Tommy's spine. Total bullshit, Tommy says, "You know what I like, babyboy."

The corner of Adam's mouth hitches up. "I can guess," he says, and sounds like he means it, like he's not just going along with this because he doesn't have a choice.

Tommy fists a hand in Adam's hair, one part show, two parts warning. The smile slips off Adam's face. What takes its place is worse. Resignation, Tommy could handle easily. Revulsion, even honest fear. There's none of that in Adam's gaze. There fucking well should be.

Tightening his grip, Tommy yanks Adam's face close, grinds his cock against it. Ignoring the disgust churning up his insides, he snarls, "Suck it," sharp and mean as a backhanded slap. Somebody whistles their approval at Adam's knees skidding wide, at Adam's startled breath echoing off the tile. But none of it drives that look from Adam's eyes. All Adam does is open his mouth, and take Tommy's dick into it.

The flat of Tommy's hand slaps to the wall. His fingers curl, blunt nails biting into grout, gouging out tiny wet chunks. Adam's mouth is hot and slick, soft as Adam holds him cradled on the shallow curve of his tongue. Tommy bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. There's no way he's going to be able to make this the show it needs to be. The second Adam starts sucking him, he's going to blow.

One of Adam's hands skims up Tommy's calf, curls just above the bend of his knee. The invitation comes across loud and clear. Fisk hollers, "Babyboy wants you to fuck his face, Ratliff!" thick with venomous, twisted satisfaction. Tommy clamps his jaw shut tight on the urge to whip around, smash his fists into Fisk's fucking face until cartilage pops, bones crunch.

He loosens his grip on Adam's hair instead, guiding instead of forcing, fucking into Adam's mouth slow and hard. Ready for it, Adam takes it easily, tilting his head, opening up the back of his throat. Tommy grinds his teeth, fighting to stick to sweet little fucks, give Adam the chance to come out of this without an aching jaw and a ruined voice. It's not gonna work. He fucking _knows_ it's not going to work even without the weight of disapproval beating at his back. Now that he's got Adam on his dick, he wants it too bad.

And it pisses him the fuck off to have Adam staring up at him like that. Like Adam fucking _wants it_.

Grabbing up two thick handfuls of Adam's hair, Tommy widens his stance, drives his dick in rough and fast and sloppy since Adam wants it so goddamn bad. Adam chokes on the first thrust, eyes flying wide then squeezing tight as he struggles to take the next, then the next, the one after that. His throat flutters around the head of Tommy's dick, fucking amazing after so long without, and Adam isn't even trying to stay quiet and take it, filling the showers with all these short, choppy noises, wet and obscene and like fucking rapture come early. Water streams down Adam's face, water and tears, not once does he fight the vicious shove of Tommy's cock, not even when Tommy drives deep and comes down the back of his throat, head thrown back, pure pleasure locking muscles tight as Adam swallows.

The second Tommy's finished, he roughly knees Adam off, knocking him back onto his ass. There's a pounding in Tommy's head, steady and driving like a bass line. Adam stays sprawled on the tile, staring up at him, half-hard and gulping air through the water streaming down over his face.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. He wants to shoot himself in the motherfucking head. "Pretty fucking shitty blow for a fag."

Everybody thinks it's hilarious.

*

That night, before the cells clang shut for lights out, instead of the new guy Tommy's been sharing space with for the last three weeks, Adam steps in through the bars.

Tommy swings up to his feet, one hand clutching the bunk's ladder. The other's guys shit is still stuffed in a heap at the foot of the top bunk, same as it was when he'd lumbered out in the morning. Never fucking mind how whacked in the head Adam's got to be to want to pull this stunt, a one-night switch costs way more than he'd figure Adam's got to deal. "How the fuck?"

A strange half-smile flirting with his mouth, Adam puts a finger to his lips. He waits until the guards call close and the doors slam shut. "Maybe somebody owed me."

All Tommy can do is stare at him. It's not supposed to go this way. Adam's supposed to be pissed over what he did, royally ticked right the hell off, not waltzing tra-la-fucking-la into his cell. The lights shut off in chunks along the row like a countdown. Tommy's heartbeat echoes click-track thin in his skull, growing loud and crashing as the dark floods in.

Shadows steal the expression from Adam's face. Hushed and slow, he says, "I don't know how to do this."

 _I don't know what the fuck you're trying to do_ Tommy wants to say. He swallows hard, words burning like bile all the way down the back of his throat, and skins off his tank instead, flinging it onto the top bunk. Stiff cotton whispers as he hauls back the sheets and crawls in, putting his back to the wall.

Silence fills the cell, a background hush to the sound of the rest of the floor settling in for the night. Adam moves carefully, folding his shirt, hesitating for a split-second before sliding down his drawstring pants, draping those over the foot of the bunk. He slips into bed without a word, taking up every inch of space with broad shoulders and long legs, the wariness he's been carrying around since day one, the weight of somebody who thought they knew where they were going in life.

"I can't sleep with a lot of clothes on," is what Adam says when there's five inches of space between their faces, none at all between them beneath the covers. "Too hot."

The heat's pouring off him already. Tommy's toes twitch. He wonders what it'd be like if he slid his feet between Adam's calves.

Warm breath smelling of toothpaste tickles Tommy's lips. "I can't sleep at all."

Tommy doesn't say anything. He can't remember the last time he was this close to someone else and not trying to hurt them. Everywhere they touch, his skin burns. Like a winter he spent once in a place it actually snowed, nerves dead from the cold come back to life. Closing his eyes, he savours the sluggish, spreading ache.

When he wakes, it's sharp and sudden, and hours later. He pushes the air caught in his throat out deliberately slow, the wall shunting it back into his face. There's an arm draped heavily over his middle, fingers lax with sleep tickling the inside of his elbow. Adam is a hot, solid line against his back, pressing him too close to rough paint-peeled cement. His pants are twisted weirdly around his hips, his ankles, sweat sticky in the bends of his knees. It's uncomfortable as fuck.

He shuts his eyes again.

*

"This sucks," Adam grumbles, stuffing an armload of dirty sheets into one of the long line of industrial washers chugging away. The dryers on the other side are silent, empty. Aside from Tommy hanging back by the water tanks, nobody else is around. Adam doesn't seem to notice he's got an audience. He slams the washer shut and stabs buttons randomly until the thing starts up. "This really _sucks_."

"Take it like a man, babyboy," Tommy says, and instantly regrets opening his stupid asshole mouth. Way to prove he's a total stone-cold dick.

Making a sound sort of like a laugh, Adam skims a hand through his hair, dragging it away from his face. It flops down over his forehead again. "I'd just really like to know why I got stuck with all this," he says, gesturing at the last heap of laundry sitting by the washers.

"My fault." Tommy plunks the crumpled box of L'Oreal Black it took him two days to smuggle in onto the folding table. "Happy fucking birthday. Your roots are showing."

Adam's mouth goes slack. He picks it up, turning it over recently in his hands like Tommy's handed over a key to the outside and a bon voyage. "How did you get this?"

"C'mon, man," Tommy says, flicking at the wisps of bleach-blond hair hanging over his eyes, "you've seen the carpet."

Standing in the middle of the basement, bright fluorescents leaching all the colour from Adam's face to leave him washed out and pale, Tommy watches some of that light come creeping back into Adam's eyes. "My birthday's in January."

Tommy tries to shrug away the strange squirm of his insides. "So wait 'til fucking January if you want to do this shit by yourself with your head stuck in a toilet bowl."

Nose wrinkled, Adam tears into the box. "No thanks." He fishes out the instructions and starts reading them like he's never done a drugstore dye job before.

"Whatever," Tommy says. Makes no difference to him. Rooting around in the dirty laundry, he comes up with a threadbare pillowcase, takes it in both hands and rips the ratty thing right down the centre.

"Hey!" Adam makes a clumsy grab for it. "I'll get the blame for that!"

"Only if they find it," Tommy says, grinning at the vicious scowl on Adam's face. He drapes the torn pillowcase around Adam's shoulders like a cape, tucking it in around the collar of his shirt. "Now you gonna settle down and let me like, do your fucking hair, or you gonna freak out s'more?"

Adam eyeballs him warily as he tugs on the cheap plastic gloves that came in the box. "Okay," sounds like making a choice between the chair or the needle, but Adam sits his ass down. Mixing up the colour only takes a minute. Adam fidgets the whole time, picking at the torn strings of cotton hanging over his shoulder, pushing at his cuticles. He jumps when Tommy's fingers comb through his hair, exposing the roots.

"Y'alright, princess?"

"Yeah, just." Adam closes his eyes, tips his head back into Tommy's hands. "How fucking sad is it that I've never had this down outside of a salon?"

"'Bout as sad as me never having it done inside one. Stay the fuck still, would ya?"

"Sorry," Adam mumbles.

Heavy silence settles in as Tommy works. The washers chug away like a lullaby, steady and soothing. For the first time in a long, long time, the quiet doesn't drive Tommy batshit crazy. When he first got in here, he missed all the noises of his old life--bottles clinking, people laughing, the music flowing beneath his fingers to rise above it all. After awhile, he thought he didn't miss it so much. He'd just forgotten what it was like.

"You're good at this," Adam says, head tilted forward as Tommy massages dye gently into the shorter hairs at his nape.

"Lotsa practice." Tommy gives the plastic bottle a quick shake. "Still got some left. You want me to slap it on after the roots are done cookin'?"

Adam's answer is a weird huffing laugh.

Shoving an elbow into his back, Tommy says, "Go put the fucking sheets in. Wash cycle's twenty, yeah? Rinse you off then."

Adam stands up gingerly, holding his head awkwardly. "Let's hope I can do this without dripping everywhere."

He manages fine, stuffing the dirty sheets in, hauling the clean ones out and lugging them over to the dryers. Tommy sits on the folding table and watches, legs kicking idly, gloved hands resting carefully curled up on his thighs. Somehow, the time goes by without either of them uttering a word. About five minutes before the last washer buzzes, Tommy hops off the table, gesturing for Adam to sit down for him to finish.

Adam's the one who breaks first. He's bent over the deep laundry sink, Tommy's fingers buried in his water-slick hair, and he says, "Feels good," like it's nothing at all, his voice echoing weirdly through Tommy's chest.

Tommy's hesitates, then goes back to pushing water through Adam's hair, squeezing it out until it runs clear. He shuts off the tap, guiding Adam back with a hand on one shoulder to pat his hair dry with the clean ends of the pillowcase.

Adam straightens up, pulling the ruined case out of Tommy's hands. His gaze nails Tommy's feet to the fucking floor. "I meant what I said in the yard."

"I fucking know you did," Tommy snaps, anger flaring flashfire hot.

Adam's eyes go sad. "I'm not sorry."

"Fuck you." Tommy snatches the pillowcase from Adam's grip, balling it up around the gloves. "Have fun folding the fucking sheets by yourself, rockstar."

Outside the laundry room, three doors down and to the left, Tommy stuffs the stained pillowcase into the garbage along with the rest of the evidence. Aiming a kick at the rubber dumpster doesn't help. Neither does smacking his forearm against the wall, or slamming his back to it and sliding down. Shit like this isn't supposed to happen in prison. People like Adam shouldn't be here, and they sure as hell shouldn't want a fucking thing from people like him.

*

It turns out avoiding your bitch in prison is harder than it sounds. Tommy's had years of practice dodging people on the outside, honed it to a fine art on the inside. He's aces. He gets it done. Until three days into his hot streak, when Adam shows up in his cell with another load of fresh sheets, two rolls of toilet paper, a change of clothes, and a plastic baggie stuffed with soap and shampoo and who the fuck knows what else.

Tommy stares at him over the scribbled mess of a crossword. Six-letter word for up shit creek: fucking royally _fucked_. "You're fucking kidding me."

Glancing down, Adam says, "Maybe I should've nabbed three rolls."

"Are you seriously fucking insane? Like, I'm talking genuinely certifiable." Tommy flings his scrap of newspaper aside. "What the Jesusfuck are you _doing_?"

"You were avoiding me. Now you can't." Adam shrugs. "Seems pretty simple."

"You can't just fucking-" Tommy gives up with a frustrated snarl and yanks a hand through his hair. The bland expression on Adam's face drives him fucking crazy. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Calmly, Adam dumps his shit on the top bunk. "You look like a hardass, you even try to act like one. But you're not. I know that's not you." He sinks into a crouch in front of Tommy, soft-voiced, so sincere it fucking hurts to look at him. "Sometimes I'm not really sure who you are. Maybe I'd like to be."

"You can't say shit like that." Words grate like gravel in Tommy's throat.

Adam's mouth slants, almost a smile. "Why can't I?"

"'Cause you just fucking _can't_."

"So stop me." Adam's voice drops into a whisper, still so soft, slinking under Tommy's skin. His fingertips ghost along Tommy's forearm, following smooth lines of ink, maybe searching for the scar cut through them from Monroe's shiv. "I'm your bitch, shut me up."

Tommy can't move, can't even fucking blink. All the air in his lungs is gone syrup-thick, choking.

"That's what I thought." Rocking forward onto his knees, Adam slides his hands up Tommy's thighs, puts his mouth close enough to Tommy's ear for his breath to warm it. "I want to kiss you. Soon, you're going to let me."

It takes everything Tommy's got to drag a scrap of air into his chest. He lies awake that night with Adam curled around him, warm and too real, and stares into the darkness with his heartbeat tripping over itself, out of sync with the world, terrifying.

*

Tommy slaps two sample-sized packets of Gun Oil onto the washer Adam's leaning against. "I figure you're not a huge fan of dick chafe."

The smile that had started to spread across Adam's face when Tommy strode in crumples into confusion. He stares uncertainly down at the lube. "You want to fuck me here? Tommy, there's a damn bed in the cell."

"Can't fuck there," Tommy says. He doesn't _want_ to fuck there. Sounds carry at night, and though the guards don't honestly give a shit, Tommy's so goddamn sick of everybody horning in on his motherfucking business. He's got to have something all his own. He fucking needs something of Adam that nobody else has.

Adam flicks over the packets. "No condom?"

It would've been easier to get a rubber than it was to get the lube. Most guy on the inside are more worried about their dicks falling off than making it easy on the poor fucker taking it up the ass. "You didn't get one when I came in your fucking mouth, I don't get one now."

Adam barks out a short, sharp laugh. "Do you know how fucking crazy that sounds?"

"Not as crazy as you saying no to fucking me bare," Tommy says, arms folded, eyebrow cocked.

Surprise slackens Adam's mouth for half a heartbeat before it thins down to a tight flat line. "Would you get fucking over it already? What's this supposed to do? Really, I want to know. How the hell is fucking you gonna change fact that the only thing I didn't want when I sucked you off was everybody else watching?"

"Shut up, shut the fuck up," Tommy snarls, shoving Adam back into the washer, both of Adam's hands slapping down hard on the edge, jarring clang ringing through to the naked pipes overhead. "You want me to believe that, you fucking believe this is what I want. I want you to fuck me, okay? I want you to fucking bend me over, just fucking- _fuck_." Dropping his head to Adam's shoulder so he doesn't have to look at him anymore, Tommy drags in a shaking breath. Adam's hands stay down. _I want you to mean it_ stays lodged in Tommy's throat.

It's weird having to push up to bring them together. Weird to be the one tilting his head for a kiss, to open his mouth and _be_ kissed. It's been a long fucking time, and he doesn't remember what to do with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He freezes, trembling, and hates it. He fucking knows how to do this.

Adam's palm settles warm on his jaw, not kissing him anymore but their mouths still touching. He leans into Adam's touch, into Adam, fitting their bodies together jagged jigsaw piece by piece. His fingers find Adam's wrists--one hand on Tommy's face, the other still on the washer--and hold tight, dig in. Adam surges forward and this time it hurts, too hard, too fast, teeth clacking. Tommy's stomach lurches as Adam's hand slides down, around to cup the back of his neck, pulling him in when he tries to back off, making him take what Adam wants to give.

Just like that, everything clicks into place. The heat of Adam's half-hard dick against his hip, the sting lingering at the corner of his lip where Adam's teeth scraped, the hard kick of Adam's pulse trapped beneath his fingers. He sucks in a sharp breath, loses it again on the most fucking genuine sound he's ever made. Adam's groan spills into his mouth electric hot, thrumming.

"I want to watch you," Adam says, words slurred around the push of his tongue as he backs Tommy towards the low tables. "We'll do it on the floor. I want to see your face."

Tommy's laugh is as unsteady as his balance, bursting free when his back hits a wooden edge. "Take what you can get."

"I don't care if they hear us. I want to do it like I would've, if--" Adam's throat clicks. "I don't _care_."

"Yeah, great," Tommy mumbles, gaze sliding away from Adam's face, down to the drawstring on his pants he can untie blind. But he can't push them down, can't stand there with his junk out waiting for Adam to get it. He shakes free of Adam's hold, turning around, dropping down onto his elbows with his head bowed. "But I do, okay? I really fucking care a lot."

Waiting in the silence for Adam's hands to come back, to slide under his clothes, touch bare skin, is fucking torture. Cold shivers skim up his back, crazy fucked up precursor to the slow drag of Adam pushing his shirt up, of Adam's mouth following hot in its wake. He catches a moan between his teeth for every slow kiss Adam tongues into his skin, his pulse pounding in his skull, booming loud as thunder as Adam's kisses reach the base of his spine. One nudge is all it takes to send his clothes thumping softly to the floor. He shuffles his feet further apart, still waiting.

He loses breath on a moan when Adam presses up against him, lube-slick hand coming up between his legs. Fingers stroke over his hole, making him wet, making his nerves buzz as they slide down, up, finally push in. He takes it, easy. It even feels sorta good when Adam goes deeper, Tommy's cock thickening up as Adam fucks him loose around the thick shove of two fingers. Tingling pleasure gathers at the base of his spine, a strange kind of relief flooding in when Adam pulls out, knuckles stroking over sensitive skin. The relief is quick to fade, though, anticipation building in its place, the _want_ to have Adam back, weird firm pressure against his insides.

But Adam's dick is a hell of a lot bigger than a couple fingers when the head settles at his hole, maybe kinda fucking huge. He's ready for this to hurt. He wants it to. He rests his head against his forearm, breathing hard, steady.

Adam's breath tickles the back of his neck. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Tommy grits his teeth. Fair's fair. He hurt Adam, this should hurt him. But that's not anything Adam'll want to hear, or believe.

What he's not ready for is Adam's slippery hand on his cock. Pleasure jolts through him, arching his spine as Adam jacks him. He's still trying to figure out what the fuck when Adam presses forward, thick blunt head opening him up, sliding in slick and burning. Muscles snap taut as he sucks in air.

"Let it out, baby," Adam murmurs, strokes gone lazy-slow, mouthing kisses to the back of Tommy's neck. "Let me in."

"Fuck you," Tommy manages, but it's weak, pathetic. For the first time, he really fucking understands why he'd been so dead-set desperate about not ending up anybody's bitch in here. It's too much. He's too open, more than naked, exposed and vulnerable. Nobody's supposed to be inside him like Adam is, sensation crawling deep, nesting in his fucking marrow. He's never gonna get this feeling out. "Don't fucking call me baby."

"Sweetheart," Adam says in the same voice he'd promised to take the kisses that Tommy gave up too easily. He sinks deeper and Tommy rocks up on his toes, gasping. "Vicious, pretty little thing."

"Shut up," Tommy groans, hands curling into tight fists, one skidding down to grab white-knuckled at the edge of the table as as quick jerk of Adam's hips slams the whole fucking thing home. He can't breathe. Adam's too big inside him, too big surrounding him, pinning him down. He fights the urge to squirm on Adam's dick like he really is some little bitch on his knees. "Just fucking do it already."

"You wanted this." Big hands slide up Tommy's sides, up over his arms, stretching them straight out above his head. He grabs onto the opposite side of the table like it's the edge of a cliff and he's one wrong move from tumbling off. Adam's teeth graze the shell of his ear, clinking against piercings. "You said it's about nothing but me and you."

Tommy's a fucking liar.

All the air in his lungs leaks free on a low whine that brings heat roaring up the back of his neck as Adam's cock drags free, only the head left holding him open. He braces for the hard shove back inside, expecting the searing heat and gritty tug of being fucked, but not the way it tightens his body, not the way he moans for it, feet skidding wider until his ankles are trapped by the tangle of his pants around them.

"God," Adam groans, one arm sliding beneath Tommy's chest to pull him back into the next rough thrust. The table skids on the floor, Tommy's hands scrabbling to keep hold of it. "Tommy, fuck, you should've told me."

"Don't," Tommy blurts, straining against Adam's hold without a fucking clue if he wants to get away or get closer, "don't you fucking dare say it, I'm not, I'm fucking _not_."

Adam's other hand comes up to grip his jaw, turn his face up. The glare he aims over his shoulder at Adam, like he could fucking burn how serious he is into Adam's head with a look, falls straight off his face when Adam drives in again, fucking _kisses_ him after he does it. But kissing makes it even worse, and fucking worse still because Adam's quit dicking him to do it, cock buried deep, and this time Tommy can't keep from writhing beneath Adam's solid weight, spread out on the table and squirming, gasping for it, fucking _wanting_ it now, not trying to convince himself he does.

Adam breathes his name, follows it up with a rough, "Baby," and a snap of his hips to match, honestly fucking Tommy this time, short and sharp and fast. It's all Tommy's got left to hold on and take it, shocked somehow at the tight pleasure churning in his belly, how his cock stays hard, thick between his legs, precome smearing hot then cool on the insides of his thighs.

When Adam grabs his dick again, starts jacking him, he rocks up off the table, hand flying back to slap onto Adam's hip. Some fucked-up sound gets torn out of his throat, maybe a word, he doesn't even fucking know anymore. He comes too fast, orgasm punched straight out of him by the shove of Adam's cock, Adam's hand on his, and it takes all the air in his chest with it, all the strength in his limbs, leaving him loose and boneless and blinking stupidly at the long gouge on the table in front of his face when it finally lets him fall.

Dazed and numb in places, feeling way too much in others, Tommy stays sprawled out beneath Adam, every attempt he makes to remember how to breathe ruined by the heavy heat of Adam still buried inside him, still fucking him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight when Adam's tenses up, coming at last. It doesn't feel any different, he can't tell he just took a shot up the ass, but it does, and he can. He's never gonna forget what it's like.

There's not enough strength left in him to resist when Adam pulls him up, holding him tight back to chest and turning his face up to kiss again. His body's gone slack, useless, opened up for Adam as much as his mouth is, and when Adam grasps his hips, holds him still to drag his cock free, that's when Tommy feels it for real. Sore and swollen, come-slick on the inside, fucked. Used.

There's a tiny flutter in Tommy's belly that isn't disgust, isn't satisfaction. It isn't. He swallows a choked-off noise and kisses Adam harder, desperately, like if he stops, he'll die.

Somebody's fist slams against one of the dryers. Tommy jolts back, tries to scramble away, panicked, but Adam holds him fast. Monroe points a tar-stained finger at his face. "You're fucking sick, Ratliff."

Rage flares hot in the wake of pure mortification. This was supposed to be _his_. Tommy elbows Adam off, ignoring Adam's startled grunt, and drags his pants back up like he honestly doesn't give a shit. All Adam's got to do it hitch his waistband up over his junk, shiny-wet cock still not all the way soft. Shaking so hard he's got to work to keep his voice steady, he says, "Enjoy the show?"

"Oh yeah," Fisk drawls, Caras lurking smug at his heels. "Been waiting for you to take it like the bitch you are. Hell man, if I'd known you wanted it so bad, I'd've given it to you myself."

"Fucking knew you were a little fairy faggot," Monroe spits. His knuckles mottle red-white around the grip he's got on a knife. An actual fucking knife this time, street-vicious, deadly. "I'm really gonna love sticking ya."

"Yeah?" Tommy says, putting some space between him and Adam, keeping the tables knocked crooked by their fuck between them bothand the trouble he knew they were gonna catch. He just didn't figure it'd catch up so fast. "You gonna use that pig-sticker you got there, or your pussy little dick? Betcha I know."

Something glints in the corner of Tommy's vision. He glances quickly down to the side; Adam's got the shiv they took off Monroe tucked in close to his thigh. Adam catches his gaze, nods. Maybe it's fucked up, maybe it's crazy, but pride wells up warm in Tommy's chest.

When shit goes down, it goes down fast. One second he's smiling up at Adam, the next he's shoving at one of the tables, driving the corner hard into Caras's gut. Monroe charges around the skidding tables at him like a fucking bull, yelling all kinds of shit, fucking foaming-at-the-mouth crazy. Tommy doesn't think much beyond _Monroe's got the knife, Adam's safe_ and lunges at Monroe, the knife glancing off his elbow, slicing skin, his fist slamming solidly into Monroe's jaw.

Somebody bellows, "Jesusfuck!" and Tommy whips around, catches a bight splash of red on Adam's shirt, the shiv clean on the floor. He doesn't know what the fuck happens next. There's blood on his knuckles, pain shooting up his arms; Adam's still on his feet, fighting back, the blood's not even his but Tommy can't stop, fists smashing into flesh, anyone he can reach, and he can't fucking stop.

He's got to fucking stop. He's gonna kill somebody.

It's pure relief when the guards charge in screaming at the tops of their fucking lungs. Tommy slumps to the floor, breathing hard. Fisk is long gone. Caras disappears in a cloud of uniforms, still shouting, waving his arms around like a fucking lunatic until the guards cuff him. Monroe's sprawled in a bloodied heap, face busted to shit, clutching at the knife stuck in his side and shrieking Adam's name, over and over, until his voice cracks.

Page kneels by Monroe's head, radioing for medics as puts a few fingers to Monroe's pulse. His gaze slides from the blood on Adam's shirt to the red smears drying on Tommy's hands. "Nobody gonna tell me a story?"

"Fucking cocksucking Jew," Monroe screams, "fucker stabbed me, had it all planned, fucking faggot planned it all!"

"Right," Page says, flat as a fallen house of cards. "Either one of you gonna back him up?" he asks, doubt dripping from every word.

"Yeah," Tommy croaks. Adam sucks in a breath like somebody's slapped him across the face. "Dunno about the planning it shit, but Lambert gutted him. Dunno where the knife came from. Didn't see it on him. Not mine."

Adam doesn't say anything, doesn't move.

Page gives them both a long, steady look. His gaze lands on Tommy, on Tommy's aching hands. "You're sure that's what you wanna say."

Not even one fucking bit. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."

Jerking his chin at Adam, Page says, "Get him outta here. Overnight solitary."

Tommy looks up fast. "One night?"

Calm and even, Page says, "Can't prove who brought the knife in. Unless you want to tell me another story?"

"Nope, don't know anything," Tommy says, bowing his head, Adam's stare boring into the back of his skull. His hands are fucking killing him. He thinks maybe he broke something aside from Monroe's face. "I don't know a fucking thing."

*

Thursday again. Tommy drags his ass around the kitchen stuffing shit into the bank of fridges, slopping up worse-looking shit for the latecomers. Adam's been out of solitary a whole morning already, but he hasn't been back to their cell. As if Tommy seriously fucking blames him.

But Adam's had all night to figure it out. He's got to know by now Tommy didn't fucking flip on him. Monroe might be out of commission for a week, maybe two if they're lucky, but Fisk got away clean. Tommy couldn't take the chance he wouldn't. Couldn't take the chance he'd leave Adam out here on his own.

He slaps what looks to be jellied vomit onto somebody's tray, bits of it spattering over the side.

"Hey, hey," the guy holding the tray wheezes, and Tommy looks up to find Frankie H's maniac grin shoved in his face. "The fella what stabbed Monroe, you know him, don'tcha? Yeah, yeah. Big black-haired fucker. Heard he decked one of the boys sticking him in the cage for the night. Whammo!" Frankie makes a fist, slop sliding dangerously close to the edge of his tray. "Clocked Saunderson a smart one! How 'bout that, eh? How 'bout it!"

Tommy's stomach plummets to the floor. "Yeah, pops, how 'bout it."

"Got himself another night for it, I hear. Might've been two. But wham!" Frankie says again, pumping his fist awkwardly as he shuffles away. "Wham, like that!"

 _Wham_. Like that.

*

Two more days Adam's in solitary. Tommy spends both out in the yard, smoking his way through half his stash of barter sticks. The whole time he plays through in his head all ways the conversation they're gonna have when Adam gets out could go. It's never good. Sometimes it ends with Adam shivving him right between the ribs. He knows damn well Adam wouldn't, even though he deserves it. But give it a couple years on the inside. Next time, maybe Adam won't stand around and take it while people he thinks are his friends stab him in the back.

A rippling murmur goes through the yard. The gate clangs shut. Tommy doesn't have to look to know it's Adam. He stares at the cherry-red glow at the end of his smoke. Traitors go to the deepest circle of hell. If he believed in it, that's where he'd be headed. Maybe he'll end up there anyway. One last monumental fuck you from the universe.

Adam thumps down on the ground beside him, back to the fence. "Put that out."

Not looking up, Tommy grinds his cigarette to ash in the dirt.

"Tell me you're sorry."

Tommy turns his face up to the sky. The blazing sun is easier to look at than Adam. "I'm not."

"I get why you did it," Adam goes on, the same as if Tommy hadn't said a word. "My lawyer doesn't even think it'll ruin my chances at parole in a few years. Monroe's got a reputation."

Too bad Monroe didn't manage to bury that knife in Tommy's guts. It'd probably hurt less than this.

"I want to hear you say it."

"Say what?" Tommy finally asks. "You just fucking said you get it. You know why."

Adam's gaze is heavy as a hand on Tommy's face. "But do you?"

Tommy scrubs the heel of his hand across his forehead. His knuckles are still raw. They're not the only thing. "Yes, okay? I did it to protect you, _fuck_."

"You're so stupid sometimes," Adam sighs. Tommy's head snaps up. His eyes meet Adam's and that's it, he's fucked. He can't look away. "To protect me, sure, but that's what you did, Tommy Joe, not why."

"So why don't you fucking tell me," Tommy snaps. He flicks open the Zippo he took off a guy his first year in, flame flaring dully in the sunlight as he digs viciously through his pack of smokes only to find it empty.

Adam's hand closes over his, clicking the lighter shut. "Two years isn't as long as you think."

Two more years of this place. Two more years of the fuckers in it, two more years of all their fucking stupid shit. "Fucking long enough."

"Only if you're on your own," Adam says, sliding the lighter out of Tommy's slack grip.

Two more years of Adam.

The thing that's been nesting in Tommy's belly for weeks, skulking around in there alley-cat wary, stretches out in the slow crazy slant of a smile. Its claws dig into his bones, its smug satisfaction seeps into his blood. He thinks maybe he's finally cracked. He slips sideways, caught against Adam, cheek on Adam's shoulder. It feels good. The best he's ever. "You know what they do to guys like us in prison."

Adam's fingers lock tight with his.


End file.
